be there—nobody gives up a rent-controlled apartment in this city. So my money would probably still be where I’d hid it, in a hole I made in the top of one of the closets. She was always saying the plaster was moldy, made her clothes smell. So, when she had to go someplace for a weekend, I emptied all the closets and rough-sanded the insides. Then I painted them, fresh, bright white.
I mixed a little lemon juice in with the paint; that’s a trick I learned from an old guy who hired me to lift heavy stuff for him. I was supposed to be learning how to paint, but it never happened. This guy did tile, too, but he told me I didn’t have the hands for that.
When she came back, I showed her my surprise. She loved it. I told her she couldn’t put her stuff back in the closets for another couple of days. I had laid it all out on the beds in two of the rooms. She didn’t care, she was so happy to see the closets looking so good.
And they did, for real. With the plaster re-covered, the primer, and the three coats of paint, you couldn’t even see where I had planted the cash.
I hadn’t planned on leaving it there long. But then I got popped for that rape I never did.
When you have money, you don’t get all crazy about needing some more. Gives you time to think. Which is what I did, my first night in that over-the-garage apartment.
Maybe Francine—that was the girl’s name—maybe she had a guy living there, like I had been. Or got married, even.
Or maybe she turned the place into a moneymaker, subletting it out for ten times the rent she had to pay. A lot of people do that. It’s a risk, because the building owners are always watching for those kind of moves.
Maybe the building had gone co-op. Francine might still be there, but probably she would have sold the apartment a couple of years back—Solly had said something about real estate going way up then.
The real problem was the five years. More than that, actually. I’d never expected to be gone more than a few days, so what could I tell Francine that wouldn’t sound like complete bullshit? And it wasn’t like she was, you know, crazy about me or anything.
I balanced it out. Breaking into the place wouldn’t be a hard job—they didn’t have a doorman, at least when Francine lived there. But I’d have to do a lot of scoping it out first, and even then I’d still need a lot of luck.
And if I pulled it off, what would I have? Eighty grand … and maybe Francine telling the cops about an ex-boyfriend who had painted those same closets where there was a chunk missing now.
I made the decision before I fell asleep. I was going to take a pass. I remember thinking how Solly would have been proud of me, just before I went out.
It’s supposed to be tradition that the first thing a man does when he makes the gate is get himself some pussy. For sure, it’s what everyone who’s about to go says they’re going to do.
I think that’s probably more about what’s waiting for you than anything else. If you’ve got a wife, or a girlfriend—or even some woman you’ve been pen pals with, then probably it’s true. Or if you’re with a crew, they’re supposed to have that all lined up and waiting for you. Throw you a party.
There’s other ways. One old guy—hell, he was probably younger than I am now, but this was during my first bit—he told me the only difference between getting married and picking up a hooker is that, one you buy, the other you rent. But he was in there for killing his wife, so even I could figure out that he probably wasn’t wrapped too tight.
Finding a hooker used to be easy. Almost no-risk. At least not for me. Guys who worked the badger game, they’d tell their girls never to pick up anyone who looked like he could do damage. Plus, they’d want a guy in a suit if they could find one. A suit and one of those little briefcases.
There’s a different play on that game, but it only works if the john is looking for underage. The girl has to look real young, and they work it like a shakedown, not a rough-off. I wouldn’t be